


Hold on to me (cause I’m a little unsteady)

by winterscaptsam



Category: Marvel
Genre: Light Angst, M/M, a drabble of words I’m not really sure of, angst/emotional comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-18
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2020-10-21 03:26:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20686736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterscaptsam/pseuds/winterscaptsam
Summary: And as if the universe was calling for it, the wind was always in favour of Sam and Bucky. Two roses demanding to be seen, the wind guiding them to each other’s direction.





	Hold on to me (cause I’m a little unsteady)

**Author's Note:**

> Not entirely sure what this is but just a bunch of words that made themselves into a somewhat angst fic

In 2008, Mexico City. A man named Pedro Reyes asked the Mexican government if he could turn their disarmed military weapons into musical instruments. Somewhere, out there in the distance a rifle is being played as a piano.

Bucky wonders if the ivory on pianos could build as much pain as a bullet. He’s seen it before, the rotten black detail shooting straight into a man’s heart and ending his breath. Sometimes the noise of a bullet is overpowered by the music he hears and suddenly it’s 1939 again. 

The sleeve of his uniform being pulled around the funfair by an excited brunette. Tugging him from candy floss stalls to roller coasters until his feet are plastered to the ground, attention taken away by the sound of a piano, he feels he can’t move. 

Stuck in time as all he sees in front of him; a soldier, he looks lonely, almost broken. Each key he presses representing a loss, a story and it sends wavelengths through Bucky’s heart, he feels himself sink as he listens to the music as if the musical beats are drowning him half to the ground and half to the sky. All the screams, laughter and conversations around the funfair muted as all he could hear for that second was the mellow beat of the piano. 

Remembers how at peace the sound of the keys made him feel, could almost memorize the emotion after every press, the story after every melody. Sometimes, even on the roughest of nights he can play it again in his head, if loud enough, if accurate enough...it could be the only thing to sound him to sleep.

The longer the years get, the harder it is to remember but he tries, tries to engrave every detail to his memory, plays the off beat, rough keys in his head as he remembers them to be.

Sometimes the only thing that could bring him to peace was the sound of the piano.

How when the thick accent of rough voices whispered him evil, that’s what he turned out to be. A rifle shooting to a distance, to men he didn’t even know the name of, men with wifes’, kids, brothers, sisters, families; he remembers his own. 

How his sisters would chase each other in the small blocks of Brooklyn, come running home with mud all over their dresses, how his mother would sigh but laugh it off as she placed dinner on the table. Remembers a time like 1939 where when there was war in the world but for a still moment, he felt the peace in his heart. 

Wonders if he’ll ever feel that type of peace again. It’s a sweet thought he’ll have to save for later because it’s December 16th, 1991. 

At age eight, Sam came home with roughed up knuckles and a bruised eye. His first fight which quite proudly, he won and his father taught him to hang up his victories, treated the blood on his knuckles like the paintings he’d hang up on the walls.

Told him to keep his grip tight and stand up tall, _ “never let another man make you feel less than you are,” _he said as a young Sam looked up to him as if he was the only person in the room, admiration clear in his eyes. 

Until his father passed away, his grip loosens, unable to keep himself standing for any longer as the world collapses around him. And, God he wanted to hate him, hate him for leaving him, hate him for teaching Sam something he couldn’t live up too. Hated the fact a man he’d never met with a gun had the upper hand on making him feel less, how the strength of a bullet made every word that ushered from his father's lips feel weak. 

But he carried on, until the blood turned from hung up paintings to medals on his chest and then a shield. 

_ It’s heavy, _he thinks.. And it’s not the type of heavy that you struggle holding, it’s the type that weighs in on you when you’ve got nothing else on your shoulders, the type that creeps into your head while still clinging onto your chest, a type of heaviness he’s felt before when high up in the skies, watching.

It always feels like all he does is watch, as if just up there to watch as everyone around him fell.

Riley 

<strike>Rhodey</strike>

Natasha 

And he’s stuck writing the names down on repeat, a line through Rhodey’s name, unsure if it counts since he survived the fall. Feels guilty for writing down Natasha’s, he wasn’t even there to see it never mind stop it. But he’s seen people fall too many times to have needed to be there. 

Which is why he won’t let another person fall, not again, not if he has the opportunity to stop the everlasting pain as the air is too weak to hold up the mass of a body as it falls straight to the ground.

It’s naive hope, that’s what he tells himself anyway. He should be happy for Steve, he had the opportunity to go back to a life he always wanted but at what cost? To leave him behind, to leave Sam behind. And maybe Bucky thought that was too great a cost that Steve wouldn’t take but he was wrong. 

Steve made his choice and he has to live with it, thinks it would be nice to feel that way about someone. That after decades their name still rings in your head, that every smile reminds you of theirs, a love so strong that not even a lifetime could make you forget. 

“Did you know?” Sam asks, hands gripping tight on the wheel, driving somewhere, nowhere to be honest, they didn’t even know where to go after everything. Pepper had told them to stay at the Avengers tower for a while but that didn’t feel right, felt like an invasion if he were to be honest. 

“Won’t make a difference if I did,” Bucky mumbled back, eyes gazing out the window at the setting sun.

Sam sighs, not heavy like he’s had enough but gentle, almost like a part of him gives up, unsure of what he’s giving up exactly, he takes his eyes off the road for a second to look at Bucky, “you’re right,” he says, “nothing would make a difference.”

He doesn’t reply, neither of them said anything for the rest of the ride. Both eyes on the road, Sam’s hands tightening against the wheel, as if too scared to let go, it’s like an instinct feeling that once he does- something, _ someone _will start to fall. 

And it’s because Sam is too focused on not losing anybody else that he starts to lose himself. Morning missions turning to late night stakeouts, wings roughed up at the edges, easy to tell they haven’t had a seconds rest, even Redwing is nowhere to be seen. 

He’s walking into the shared apartment after a mission he decided to take upon himself. Legs too weak to hold himself up, he stands straight anyway, tries to ignore the strain on his thighs, the bleeding cut on his head, the punching pain in his waist as a sudden force is pulling him back. 

The tough grip of an arm holding him from his neck, a kick at the back of his ankles, in a quick motion Sam tries tackling the force off of him only to be pinned by a ground, the heavy mass of a body keeping his arms down at either side of him. 

“What the-“ able to see through the darkness and a sheer light coming from the kitchen that it’s Bucky. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Sam spits out, tries loosening the grip that Bucky’s hands have on his wrist, Bucky only tightens it, keeps him pinned to the floor as he slips his legs on either side of Sam’s. 

“See how easy it was for me to get to you?” Bucky’s voice a coldness, almost suffocating.

“What? Man, just get off of me,” 

Again, Bucky only tightens his stance above Sam, using his dominance to keep him pinned to the ground, “You saw how many people were out to get you when you were Falcon, think about how much that number is gonna increase now you’re Captain,”

Sam doesn’t say anything, only tries to find an emotion behind the look in Bucky’s eyes.

“You gotta be alert, Sam! There’s only more people out to get you now you’re Captain,” 

“I know,” Sam grits his teeth,

“You clearly don’t, if I was able to get you down in a seconds match!” 

“If I had my wings-!”

“If you had your wings what?! You ain’t got a clue what HDYRA would do to you,”

“And you think pinning me to the ground at the dead of night is teaching me something?” He snaps back, hint of anger found in his voice, Bucky shrugs himself off of Sam, brings himself up to his feet and takes a couple steps back.

“When are you going to stop?” Bucky asks, voice low in the midnight air of the living room. 

Sam shuffles a bit, takes off his goggles and throws them to the floor beside him, revealing the tiredness of his brown eyes, left one swollen purple, “I can’t.”

A heavy sigh escapes Bucky, “you can’t?” He rubs his fingers through his hair, “or you won’t?”

“What difference does it make?” 

Sam knows what he’s doing is wrong, he’s been told it by Fury and Maria countless of times, not that he ever listens. Even a late night call with Steve, ‘you don’t have to prove yourself to the world, Sam,’ he remembers him saying but that’s easy for Steve Rogers to say. 

Sam has to prove himself to the world regardless of a shield, of wings, of a name that doesn’t mean anything when all the world will see is a man with the skin tone seen as a weapon. 

“It makes all the difference.”

“I’m trying to fight-“

“They’re not your battles!” Bucky shouts, doesn’t mean too but God, he doesn’t know how to get his point across, maybe he’s not clear enough but how can he tell Sam to stop fighting when that’s all he’s been doing his whole life? From WW2 to HYDRA. 

Sam scoffs, eye’s tired as he tries to keep them open, he shrugs.

Bucky continues, “you're out there every day and night, I can’t remember a time seeing you without that _ stupid shield, _God, I can’t even remember seeing you at all!” 

“I’m trying to win,” maybe win isn’t such a great choice of words but that what it feels like, it feels like a fucking damn win after every successful mission, after every HYDRA base is taken out, feels like a damn win for the world, for him. 

“Winning? That’s what this is about?” Bucky’s words spit out like venom, harsher than they’re supposed to sound.

“N-no, that’s not what I meant,” Sam scoffs 

Running his fingers through his hair, voice stressed out, “then what’s it about?” 

And now it’s an ongoing battle of voices, trying to defend a point, they don’t even know what it is, “it’s about proving I’m worth the shield!”

There’s a seconds silence.

Bucky’s eyes hurt as he stares straight at him, really looks into his eyes as if he can see every story he’s not telling, he could see all the broken pieces he’s hiding behind the brown of his iris.

“If that’s all the shield means to you then maybe you shouldn’t have it,” _ wait, no he didn’t mean it like that, _Bucky tries to stop himself but the words are already out, it’s too late to take back. 

The feeling of helplessness stings in Sam’s heart, in a way that makes him remember it never really went away just kept itself hidden. Maybe Bucky was right, maybe he didn’t deserve it.

And God knows Bucky wishes he could take it back, wishes that he could suck up all the words that breathed air, that the only thing Sam would ever hear from him was sweetness, wishes he could tell him every damn reason why he deserves it more than anyone else, wishes he was never the reason for the hurt in his eyes. 

But it’s too late.

Sam drops the shield, hard vibranium hitting the floor, takes his wings off next, redwing already out of sight. 

He’s Sam Wilson now, nothing else.

All he needs is a drink, the slow and rough ache of bourbon tickling his throat. Maybe he’ll party so hard he’ll forget the hours he didn’t, it reminds him of his twenties. Getting fucked by bathroom walls and sniffing up borrowed coke and before he knows it he’s partying like he’s twenty years old again.

Except his twenties ended by enlisting into the military, getting his heart shot at while his best friend fell from the skies. Maybe that’s how this night will end as well, with war memories until he’s pushed into a real one.

He wonders if this is the type of pain everyone he loved felt as they hit the ground. 

They say that when you die you have seven minutes of brain activity left, that your life will flash before your eyes, you’ll remember the memories you had as you see them for one last time. Sam sometimes wondered what he’d see.

He’d hear his father one last time, _“that’s it, you got it Sammy. Fists tight- ow! Okay, okay,” he laughed, hands up in defence, “you got it kiddo, you’re a fighter,” _Sam remembers he never got to say goodbye.

Perhaps he’d see Riley, the minutes on the ground where he bubbled like a kid,_ “Jesus Christ! It’s massive,”_ _Riley smirked, “we’re bloody falcons, pal” _maybe he laughed but the only thing Sam can remember from that day is his fall. 

What if he saw Steve, Natasha. _ “Violet? Nah, I mean looks a bit green,” Sam muttered when Natasha first dyed her hair blonde, _ it was supposed to be dangerous, being on the run and all. _ They took all the mirrors down, just a prank to waste away the hours. _Remembers the smile tugging on her lips as she pretended to be mad.

But the memories hurt too much, the only thing he has left of them is the pain they left behind.

The next time Bucky hears the sound of the piano is in the small empty apartment space, he walks into the living room, sunlight beaming through the blinds, reflecting shadows on his skin and hair, he’s stuck. 

Feels like he can’t move all over again, the press of a key ringing in his head, if he closes his eyes maybe he can catch a glimpse of the lone soldier pouring his heart out into the piano as it turns his pain to music. 

“Beethoven,” Sam’s voice stern yet a soothing gentleness, “moonlight sonata,”

Feet half sunken in the ground and head up in the clouds, listening to the gentle sound of a piano he heard from a time he can’t remember anymore.

He hears the bullets, the screams of lost soldiers that got to live in their time, the cries of fellow comrades, the coldness as they waited out a war, a war that feels never ending. 

But the bullets are muted out by the sound of the piano, each key pressed rough with the agony of the musician, if he listens close enough maybe it’s gentle melody would bring a lover back, a friend, a sister, a mother, a father, his home. 

Feels as though if he listens close enough everything he left behind would appear in front of him, that he’d get a chance to say goodbye.

But he realises, it’s the sound of the music that makes him feel at home. 

Bucky can feel the wet roughness of a tear fall down his cheeks, “I didn’t-“ _ mean what I said the other day, _he wants to say but words feel rough against his throat. 

“It’s okay,” Sam walls towards him, places a hand on his shoulder, “I know.”

At 31 years old, his best friend, soldier in combat, his right wing, fell from the skies as the sound of bullets overpowered the commotion. Felt as if his heart fell right down with Riley, that there wasn’t a man in the world that could calm his thoughts as he promised, as he swore to himself that he’d catch the sick bastard that shot him down. 

A failed promise is what it feels like, now Sam makes simple promises, ones that don’t hold as much weight. He promises he’ll get the chocolate chip cookies for the next VA meeting, promises to switch off the dryer when it’s done, promises to take care of himself this time. 

One particular night, Bucky asks about one of his promises, one that he’d forgotten about, one that he want even sure had a meaning behind it, as if the words came out effortless and didn’t hurt Sam to his core.

“Why did you help him? ``Steve, I mean” 

Sam shuffles in his seat, looks at the ceiling and back down to the ground, “how’d you mean?” 

“I know why Steve did but,” Bucky’s tone changes, maybe a little unsure by his words, “help me out here, Sammy. I don’t understand anythin’ you do for me,” 

His lips part a little, keeps his head in a firm position staring down at the ground but let’s his eyes gaze up to look at Bucky, “I hated you for a good while, if that helps,”

Bucky lets out a humourless chuckle, “because I tried to kill you? And almost succeeded but that’s besides the point,”

Sam raises an eyebrow, slight smirk tugging on his lips, shakes his head, “I hated what hydra did to you, that’s not the same as hating you.” 

“Why then?” Bucky’s voice changes, from unsureness to need, felt like he needed this answer. 

Sam only shakes his head, deflects giving an answer, only for Bucky to ask again, “why?”

“Because Steve got you back!” 

Silence, only for a moment. 

“Because Steve told me you fell back in ‘44 and then here you were again. Steve got his best friend back like all those conversations-“ he stops, tackling the words out his breath, Bucky just watches, a hint of pain showing in his eyes but Sam continues, “He said he understood the pain of watching the person you love most fall,” 

“Sam-“

“And then he got you back,”

He covers his face with the palm of his hand, as if blocking the tears that were threatening to fall, “he got you back a way that I won’t ever get Riley,” 

. 

It hurt. Hurt watching at the sidelines as all he had left of Riley was a picture, all he had left of Nat was a memory, all he had left of his father was words he couldn’t even live up too. 

It hurt knowing that Steve lost Bucky, only to get him back, that he lost Peggy, only to get her back too. 

He realises; as he’s looking into Bucky’s eyes that this isn’t hate. Hate is the toxic residue that burns after its been turned to ash, that bites away at you with all its strength. Sam realises, he could never hate. 

This feeling isn’t jealousy either, maybe he thinks it’s emptiness. The type of emptiness that feels heavy against your chess, a type that makes words never enough to fill its void. 

Whichever the feeling is, he knows Bucky feels it too because they have the same look in their eyes. Maybe that’s what connects them, the understatement of an emotion to vivid to describe. 

Across the room from each other, the noise of clinking glasses and rich men chatter surrounded this evenings gathering, everyone dressed up formally as Sam and Bucky leant against walls opposite sides of the room, glass of champagne in Sam’s hands as he takes a look over at Bucky whose eyes are already on him.

Sam smiles, extended his arm and raises his glass, “cheers,” he mouths at Bucky from across the room. 

“Mr Wilson!” And suddenly his sight is blocked by a cheery older man, reaching out his hand to shake, “I hear you’re the new Captain now. How’re you finding it?”

“Hm,” Sam hums a smile, “yeah, good,” he tries looking for Bucky again in the crowd.

“Oh, I’ve never been one to keep up with the superhero gossip. You know me! Although I would like to point out that a significant amount…”

The man’s voice muted out as Sam’s eyes catches the dazzling blue once again, smile creeping up on his lips as Bucky looks back, still in the same position as before, he watches as Sam’s focus remains on him as an older man keeps chattering.

“Help,” Sam mouths over at Bucky, quickly replacing it with a smile to the man,

Bucky shrugs, shakes his head, “uh-uh” 

Cracking a smile back, Sam can’t help but feel his heart grow fonder. A fondness that was always there, his heart was a rose, sometimes demanding to be more but what’s more beautiful than when a rose finds its peer. 

How both red petals shine in the sun, gushing in beauty as their danger, their thorns as sharp as a needle wasn’t too far down, yet they were still beautiful. Letting the gentle breeze of autumn push them to whichever direction it desires. 

And as if the universe was calling for it the wind was always in favour of Sam and Bucky. Two roses demanding to be seen, the wind guiding them to each other’s direction. 

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback appreciated :) x


End file.
